


Feathers Of An Arrow

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: M/M, vague sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve done this countless times before, so many that the nights have all blurred into one long, thrilling game. And James plans on savoring it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers Of An Arrow

They drive out to the desert on hot summer nights, when even the wind off the ocean feels stale, salt turning to ash on their tongues. It should feel like being young, like being a kid again; driving up the coast until they hit the stretch of highway that leads inland, music blasting a beat through their ears, their ribs, tracking down their spines and then out again through the leather of the car seats, sticky hot against the skin of their backs. It should, but it doesn’t, because they were never kids here, not in the land of glitter and sunshine, palm trees and dreams. Their childhoods were snow ball fights and hot tub parties, the hiss of steam and the buzz of icy cold beer to keep the darkness at bay, and the distant, cold clarity of the stars singing through their veins.

They all remember different things, when they close their eyes against the noisy thrum of the freeway and feel the hard bass line pound away every thought, drown everything except the rhythm of their breath and the drip of sweat from their eyelashes. For Kendall, it’s the first girl he ever slept with. He was fourteen and she was soft and tight and burning hot, even though the windows of her garage were iced over with lace patterns. He thinks about her soft breath, the way she arched into him, her hair spilling down her shoulders to the slick sheen of her breasts. He hasn’t talked to her in years, but he can’t remember why. He thinks, maybe it was because of how awkward it was afterwards, when she stood there in her polka dot sweatshirt and low slung jeans, the memory of being split wide open and raw reflected in her eyes. Then again, she started dating a football player two months later, and Kendall’s not sure if he ever forgave her for that wound to his pride.

Carlos thinks about his family, and how they’re scattered across America like so much bird seed. When he was little, he used to sit on his mother’s lap on their porch when summer storms rolled in, and he’d watch the way the lightning flashed white hot and dangerous in the sky, thunder cracking like an amplified gunshot. Papi used to take them to the shooting range near the department, all of them, on special days, when it was empty of all the police men. He’d strip his gun down, bare its guts, and tell them stories about the genius of mankind, and how it was inevitably used to rain down death on their neighbors. Carlos had decided in that moment that he didn’t want to be smart, to bring destruction to anybody, anywhere; not then, not ever. Papi was his hero, but the gun in his hands was a snakebite waiting to happen, liquid black poison, and Carlos no longer dreamed about following in his father’s footsteps. When he curled into his mother’s chest, he could see Papi out of the corner of his eye, around the floral print of her shirt. His brothers and sisters were huddled into the cave of their father’s arms, and they watched him, captivated, as he made shadow puppets with his fingers, eagles and crocodiles outlined against the peeling clapboard of their house, made brilliant by the ferocity of the storm.

Logan isn’t thinking about anything, not really. His mind is always going, going, going, gone, and sometimes it’s nice to hear the words of a song and not actually analyze them, not to wonder if the throb of the speakers might actually manage to blow out his eardrums, not this time. Camille broke up with him for the ninth time a week before, and it’s honestly a blessing to stop thinking at all.

James is the only one with his eyes wide open, and he can see the way Kendall’s slumped against the window of the passenger seat, his hand dangling out to make little undulations against the air rushing past the car. He can see Carlos breathing fog onto the half closed glass in the rear, his index finger tracing pictures of pine trees and mountains and things that feel like _home_. And Logan’s back there too, his legs extended up front, the toe of his sneaker close to nudging the gear shift, his eyes fluttering openshutopen like he can’t figure out if it’s better to stay awake or dream.

They’ve done this countless times before, so many that the nights have all blurred into one long, thrilling game. And James plans on savoring it.

He loves California, loves the way he can dip his feet in the Pacific Ocean and feel like he’s standing at the edge of the world. Like there’s a whole new frontier out there, waiting to be discovered, but it can wait, because he’s _right there_ , on the verge. He loves that this place, this magical fucking land has given him _this_ , even though it’s sure to be transient.

He grips the wheel hard and turns off the freeway, the air immediately boiling up a few notches. They’re leaving the sunset behind them, now, and Kendall’s fingers begin to taptaptap against the side of the car. Logan’s foot brushes James’s elbow, the only sign he’s noticed that they’re closer. Soon enough they’ll be parked, and it will begin.

James knows what this is. He always has.

For Kendall their little ritual is about sex, about the hard bodies, the tremor of muscles; Logan’s hitched breath and Carlos’s unbridled enthusiasm and the sweaty curl of James’s hair around the shell of his ear. It’s harnessing all that pent up energy, just like before a show, and making it into something more, something better, something _real_.

To Carlos it’s family, the comfort and the familiar squeeze of people who might as well be blood. It’s watching a thunder storm curled into his mother’s chest, the spark of his father’s gun, the firm press of skin, like brothers in a puppy pile. He sometimes wonders if it would the same with a girl, or with just _one_ of them.

With Kendall, on his own, their shining leader in all things.

Or James, who moans like he sings.

Or even Logan, who knows so many things, like how to use his hands, his teeth, and his tongue just right.

It isn’t like he would ever do something like this with his real brothers and sisters, but the guys are one step away from blood; all the comfort and none of the shame.

Carlos thinks about girls and red mouthed boys, but he isn’t quite ready to step out on his own, not just yet.

For Logan, it’s simply a way to forget a girl with fire in her eyes and the way he never can seem to do the right thing. It’s his friends, and the way they give pleasure so freely, and the way they are simultaneously right and wrong. He never could turn down a paradox.

They all have reasons to be there, except for James, who feels like he’s observing a car crash in slow motion. Who knows that one day soon this won’t happen anymore.

Everything has gotten so convoluted.

Most days they love each other too hard, too much, when they shouldn’t.

Some days, when it counts, they don’t love each other nearly enough.

And then, every once in a while, James will catch one of them staring at another covetously, a kind of fierce possession and downy softness in their eyes, and he knows they’ve already fucked everything.

They’ve gone too far, and broken every rule, and now they’re so close to splintering.

Because four isn’t a balanced number, and unrequited love has destroyed some of the best men in history. With a little unrequited love and a side helping of jealousy, a whole dynasty of eighteen years could come tumbling down. Even James isn’t immune.

He doesn’t let himself think about that. He drives and drives until he can’t go any farther, until they’re hidden amongst dry brush and clay colored sand, the desert already cooler with nightfall than the coastline has been all week.

Carlos is citrus, sunshine and dew, the heady taste of humid air and the dry brush of palm leaves.

Logan is a cool breeze, the sparkle of light off the glassy surface of a lake, lukewarm water and the scrape of shells and the slick slide of algae beneath his feet. He’s holding your breath beneath the soft lapping waves and peering up at the stars through a stream of bubbles.

And Kendall, Kendall is everything. He’s the earthen sent of pine leaves and damp ground, the rustle of sharp wind and the hazy light of a million galaxies spinning overhead. He’s the heat rising off concrete on a hot summer day and the molten chocolate and marshmallow concoction in a s’more and the spark of a campfire.

He doesn’t just have fire, he embodies it, jumping from one task to the next like a flame, catching hold, capable of destroying a person in his wake.

None of it is like a magazine shoot, where all of their imperfections are photoshopped out of the public eye; every freckle and zit falling by the wayside. In the play of shadows and starlight, everything stands out in stark relief. James can see the mole beneath Kendall’s hip bone, the dark circle beneath the sharp juncture where everything meets. He can see the thin, jagged white scar where he once impaled himself on a bicycle spoke beneath the silvery gold hair of his leg and the burn on his shoulder from when he tried to make pancakes with Katie a few weeks past.

He can see the way Logan’s cheeks dimple and how his eyes flicker shut when he kisses him, kisses James while Kendall’s hand is shoved down the front of his khakis.

James can’t see Carlos at all, but Carlos is behind him, fingers fumbling with his belt and James doesn’t need to see for the image to form in his mind.

Logan sucks a bruise into the skin right below his jaw, and James reaches out wildly, wanting to feel flesh beneath his finger tips, wanting the indent of Carlos’s muscles or the sharp jut of Kendall’s hipbone or the smooth dip of Logan’s clavicle. He wants to feel it all at once, and liquid heat shifts like mercury low his belly, sliding smooth and silver beneath his skin.

He feels teeth skid along the inside of his thigh and he can’t help feeling like he’s burning up, inside out. He’s always the first to give in.

Seconds pass, or minutes, or hours, and there’s no such thing as time here. They’re building a melody, a song between the four of them; something James won’t be able to remember when it’s over. A warm hand bumps his, and James’s fingers cling to skin, to calluses and scars that were crafted in his presence.

He recognizes Kendall the same way he recognizes Carlos moving inside him, the harsh pull of skin like a heat storm building in his ribcage, crackling electricity threatening to pull him apart. Kendall’s arm is snaked around Logan’s side, forearm resting against James’s hip, and when his skin rubs against Carlos’s, James can feel a shiver go through the body behind him, the way things grow more intense, movements more focused, more determined.

When he comes it’s a crescendo. Its sweaty summer nights and the knowledge that they love each other all wrong and right at the same time, and that one day, just like this, they’ll implode.


End file.
